


momentary comfort, momentary relief

by heartofstanding



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Drunk Sex, F/M, Infidelity, Regrets, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25974676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Stuck in France, her efforts proving fruitless, Margaret of Anjou is exhausted.Jasper has wine.
Relationships: Jasper Tudor/Marguerite d'Anjou | Margaret of Anjou
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	momentary comfort, momentary relief

**Author's Note:**

> I basically had nothing to do with this; beardofkarmenov basically siddled up to me going, "Margaret of Anjou/Jasper Tudor crackship" and I thought, "yeah, I'd read it" and then I wrote this thing. Which was a little terrifying because a) Margaret of Anjou is always terrifying to write and b) I have no idea what I'm doing with Jasper Tudor.
> 
> Note: I decided to call Edward of Lancaster "Neddy" instead of Edward or the usual replacement, Edouard.

Margaret is tired. The day was long and fruitless but her exhaustion is not physical, there is no longing for her bed or desire to close her eyes. She is tired of the bitterness at the centre of her, tired of scraping together yet another plan, tired of exhausted and lost hopes. She is tired of remembering Henry in England and hoping without much hope that he is fine, she is tired of trying to know the usurper’s mind and cursing him, tired of thinking about the betrayals and losses she has suffered, and tired of analysing past mistakes. She is beyond weary of worrying about Neddy and if she has stolen some piece of his soul by bringing him up to think on war and revenge and blood from such a young age.

She paces her room, feels like one of the lions in the Tower of London, endlessly measuring the length of a cage, eyes on the gaps between the thick bars. She has no money, no husband, her own power checked by her circumstances. She bares her teeth at the window and wishes to smash it, wishes she could take a knife to the usurper, to his allies, to his everything. But she has only a knife fit for fruit and she is stuck in France, waiting for men’s thin promises to return to her what is rightfully hers.

 _Suffolk_ , she thinks, _Suffolk, did you know what you have wrought, bringing me to be Henry’s queen?_ She has not known a moment’s peace since her ships sailed. First there were battles with favours and words, then battles with conspiracies and hushed men, and then there were battles with body and sword. For as long as she has reigned, there has been an endless war but _she_ did not start it.

 _Father,_ she thinks, _are you happy with what you bought with my body and my heart?_ Always grasping for greatness, always coming up short. A king of nothing bred a queen of weariness, her rightful crown stolen by usurpers, her name cast into the mud of slander.

Her shoulders slump, exhaustion sets in again. She sits down, covers her face with her hands. She cannot weep. She cannot be weak.

When she hears the tap at the door and her woman moves to open it, Margaret straightens, pushes back her shoulder and stills her face. She will be strong.

It is only Jasper, bending his head to fit through the doorway, his hands holding a corked glass bottle and two cups. He is bright where she is dark, his ginger hair shining in the lantern light. He bows, she waves him up.

‘I have wine,’ he says. ‘Strong wine.’

She raises her brows, says nothing.

‘I thought we needed it.’

She allows herself a smile, a quirk of the lips. ‘Very well, then.’

*

The wine is stronger than she expected. It burns pleasantly along the line of her throat and pools in her belly. She feels more like herself, the steel armour peeled away from her skin. It has been so long since she has felt like anyone but a soldier knee-deep in mud, stained with blood and face cold as ice. Once, she thought herself as a bringer of peace, a beloved consort. Later, she thought of herself as a wolf-queen, her teeth bared and sharp. One day, perhaps, she will be all those things again but for now, she is simply Margaret again, drinking wine with a friend.

‘I wish,’ she says, ‘I wish…’

She closes her eyes, throws her head back to look up at the shadowed ceiling. _I wish._ It thrums through her, the drink and the thought. Of all the things she could ask for, of all the things she needs and wants. England, her son safe, the usurper dead beneath her feet, peace, money, Henry. The world. Too much.

‘I wish for more wine,’ she says and reaches for her cup, finishing it.

Jasper is staring at her, his eyes large in his face. She smiles at him and he averts his gaze. He is a comely man, hair like fire, eyes like amber. He looks nothing like Henry, his brother, except for the way his eyes crinkle up when he smiles. He is gentle but not like Henry. Henry could never stomach violence. But Jasper understands it is necessary, though rarely noble.

‘What,’ he says, ‘are you thinking about?’

She reaches for the bottle, pours herself another measure.

‘You,’ she says and feels no shame.

‘Me?’ he says.

‘You come here,’ she says, ‘pledging your service. Of course, I know why – Henry is your brother. But Henry is not here.’

‘No,’ Jasper says. ‘He is not.’

 _He is not._ And even when he is there, beside her in body, she feels him slipping away, her mouth filling with prayers she knows God will take no note of. She raises her cup to her lips.

‘Neddy is, though,’ she says. ‘Your nephew. The true Prince of Wales.’

‘And you.’

She is silent, watching him for a long moment over the rim of her cup.

‘And me,’ she says.

*

She’s not sure who kisses whom first, but somehow she finds herself in Jasper’s arms, his mouth against hers, her fingers curled in his sleeve, his beard brushing against her cheeks. There is a sound like a gasp, she sends her women away with a sharp word. She knows she will regret this, knows she will hate this weakness and betrayal in the morning but she is tired of being alone, tired of being strong, tired of being untouched.

She sits on the table, pulls up her skirts and Jasper is inside her in moments. Her nails rake his back, her cheek presses against his shoulder as she feels his cock jerk in and out. She gasps and makes little moans, her hips pressing against his. It’s been too long since she’s been touched like this, too long since she’s been wanted—

His hands move over her back, slide over her buttocks and pull her forward. Her breath is panting hot, sweat glistens on his skin. She pushes herself into his arms, body arching. She can taste the wine in his mouth, the bitter warmth of it.

‘Margaret,’ he says. ‘Marguerite. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—’

She shakes her head. She can’t either.

He comes inside her with a groan. Her voice rises as she follows him down.

They stay still, bodies joined as one, and breaths mingling. He pulls away and she sees his cock, gleaming with the proof of her pleasure – and proof of her complicity. She feels his seed warm inside her. He rubs a hand over his face. They don’t say anything.

Instead, he helps her undress, large fingers working slowly over the tiny buttons of her kirtle, lifting her shift over her head and letting it fall, and then rolling the stockings down from her legs. She stands there naked and without shame. She steps forward and strips him down, takes his hand and leads him to the bed.

This time it is slower. He lies flat on his back, his eyes wild as she lowers herself down. She feels herself opening for him, his cock pressing into her. Heat blooms across her face, sweeps down her chest. His hands cradle her breasts, his fingers tease her nipples before they slide down over her belly and between her thighs to touch her clitoris, his thumb rubbing over it.

She digs her teeth into her lower lip, trembles and reaches back to brace herself on his knees. His eyes are full of awe. She moves slowly at first, rocking back and forth, as she gets used to the position – she has never had sex like this before – and of looking at his face.

‘Margaret,’ he says.

‘Jasper,’ she says.

It’s more like a gasp. Her blood is up, her fingers curl into his knees. He cries out, her body clenches around his cock. Perfection, she thinks, and then doesn’t think anything else but follows the demands of her body, rising and falling on the hard length of his cock. His hands cup her hips, pull her down as he thrusts up. His head thrashes on the pillow, her head falls back and she thinks of nothing but her body, the pleasure that surges within her, the sense that, for once, she is not alone. She lets herself go and hears his orgasm as if from a distance, her own drowning her.

She lets herself fall, her chest hitting his, his mouth lands on hers, warm and sweet.

‘I,’ he says. ‘I am yours.’

She presses her fingers to his mouth, he kisses them. Her eyes feel heavy and full of tears. She thinks, _I will regret this_ and tries to remember Henry’s dear face and the fine lines etched on his palms, how she felt when they touched her. It has been so long since she saw him, so long since he has been real to her.

She swore to have no more regrets. There is no time or luxury to turn her mistakes over and over in her mind and grieve at her errors. There is no point in it. She is needed too dearly to succumb to remorse or shame or guilt. Henry and Neddy cannot destroy the usurper without her.

But this – Jasper and herself in bed in a moment of momentary comfort and relief, the love between them – this will be a mistake she will have no choice but to regret.


End file.
